Prologue

He'd been a man once. He'd had all the dreams and wants and desires of other men. Flesh and blood, he was someone's son, became someone else's husband. It had been an arranged marriage but they'd been content with each other if not wildly in love.

She'd bore him children and he'd become a father, joyously. Two boys came first. Oh how he'd loved those boys. Strong and lusty, they grew fed upon the love bestowed upon them. He'd treasured them as the wondrous gifts of the gods that they were, teaching them all he knew of the ways to be a man.

Then his daughter, a sweet and lovely girl with her mother's long blonde hair and his stubborn chin, she was the apple of his eye. How could he not feel a special love for her? She'd arrived upon a wild and windy morning; her squalling wails a joy to the ear.

He'd watched her grow with special affection, seeing her turn from a Tomboy with long legs and skinny arms into a beautiful young woman whose soft breasts and lush curves rounded out her shifts. She was kind and honest, sweetly affectionate and a hard worker, helping all around her. But her beauty had ended up being her curse as she'd drawn the eyes of the village boys and one in particular.

Alan had wanted his lovely girl, eyeing her with a bent more suited to whores and trollops, not the naïve and innocent daughter of the village herbalist. He'd proclaimed his want, following her and lewdly complimenting her dress or her hair. Not even his older sons had been able to stop his lusting. Alan just had them beaten for his father was a powerful land owner and a village elder.

They'd kept her close to home as much as possible, fear for her safety sending a dark shadow over his home. It had seemed for a while that it was working, Alan had moved on to another of the pretty girls, harassing her and leaving Anaya alone. Until...

He'd come upon the body of his daughter on a night that was stormy and dark, lightning splitting the sky with its evil forked brightness. She was nude, her body bruised and bloody, rivulets of red running into the ground beneath her. She'd been raped, not once but many times, the soft pink flesh between her thighs violated with terrible force, bruised, gouged and torn. Her breasts were bruised, small marks made by the many fingers that had groped her causing her flesh to swell. Bites marred her skin, once so warm and soft, now cold in death.

He'd lost his will to survive that day, finding only vengeance in his heart. He'd gone to Alan, seeing the man amongst his friends, laughing and jesting while they drank from their flagons. Only when his presence became known did a sudden hush come upon them, some unable to look at him, staring into the amber liquid they drank.

"You killed my daughter, my Anaya. She was all that was good and pure and you defiled her."

Alan stood, his chest swelling with bravado as he stared at the man. The old man was alone, and Alan was here with his friends. What could he do to someone of Alan's standings? "She asked for it, old man. She begged for more. You should have heard her squeal."

Rage flared and he lost control. He charged toward the man, not seeing the dagger in Alan's hand. But he felt it. It slid between his ribs easily, sinking into a heart already broken by grief. An enraged shout had been upon his lips, but it died quietly as he felt the shock of pain that slowly numbed.

They dragged him from the place and out into the fury of the storm, leaving him for dead not far from where he'd found his Anaya. The cold had been a surprise, the lack of pain a blessing as his life drained from him. He stared up into the heart of the storm, the vengeance he'd so longed for gone from his reach.

As his breathing grew labored, he made a vow of his own, whispered haltingly into the angry whipping wind and crashing thunder of the storm.

"I shall not rest, Anaya. Not until they all know my wrath, not until your death is avenged." A bubble of blood escaped his lips, sliding down his cheek and into the ground as his heart beat its last.